the misadventures of someone who prolly STILL shouldn't be allowed to raise children...

Monday, April 17, 2006

This weekend, in celebration of life's triumph over death, Bean experienced his first Easter Egg Hunt. In fairness to the word "hunt," at this age, I think that the name of the event is a misnomer given the fact that we did very little "hunting" and did a lot more "tripping" over every single egg that eventually landed in our basket -- which ended up being only a total of seven eggs and one posable bunny figurine.

I do think that he took away some very valuable lessons however, summarized here in my most favored bulleted list format:

Do not ever come between a girl and her chocolate. She will scream and it will only end badly for you.

Don't bother doing any of the actual work. There is always some kid who is willing and EAGER to go above and beyond to overachieve. Just follow him around and take the eggs out of his basket when he isn't looking.

If you leave eggs stuffed with candy hidden in the grass in 90 degree weather, you will attract sugar ants.

As an ancillary to the above, ants DO NOT taste good, even if they have been munching on your candy. Also, they tickle like all get out if you snort them up your nose.

Farm animals stink... and are not so much interested in little boys.

Little boys stink... and are VERY interested in farm animals.

Unsuspecting teenage girls will give all manner of sugary treats to very cute baby boys who flash their big blue eyes and giggle.

As an ancillary to the above, the best way to eliminate nap time and delay bedtime until your 13th birthday, is to consume two sugar cookies, one chocolate eclair, and a big, fluffy portion of cotton candy INSTEAD of the turkey, cheese, and fruit that mommy packed for you...

As an ancillary to the above, above, mommy uses a very interesting selection of words to refer to those very nice, but unsuspecting teenage girls while she chases me up and down and all around.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

I am quite certain that I have already failed my son as a mother... I mean, all I have to do is read another tofu-farting AP book to know that by this point in our mother-son relationship, I have already set him up for a life of hardship and heartache. He will be virtually incapable of warding off sickness, will always have a fear of being left for dead in a dark, quiet room. He will struggle to decipher the difference between a pacifier and a wom*an's ni$pple, causing much ridicule and snickering. The list goes on and on and on... I am surprised he even has the will to get up in the morning.*

But as if that wasn't enough, as if a lifetime of gut-wrenching personal struggle were not enough of a character building experience, I am also going to grant him with a mouth full of rotten teeth.

There are a lot of things that scared the bajeebus out of me when I found out that I was going to be responsible for another human being. Some of those things, mastering the sleep schedule, have proved to be the equivalent of a rather unpleasant, but quick experience like smelling very sour milk... it sucks, but you can't resist going back for another whiff. Others have proved worthy of their fear, rotovirus...

Never, not one single time, did brushing this kid's teeth even enter into my imagination. And now, it is the hands-down worst 10 minutes of every - single - day. I suspect that Bean would prefer to have his temperature taken the "old fashioned way" than to have me clean his pearly whites. Some days, he is just passively insistent, using the full force of his unusually strong tongue (I can only guess this is from intense bottle/binky sucking over the past 14 months) to keep the brush from crossing the threshold. On others, he writhes and screams with arms flailing as if I have laid hands on his body to drive out the demons. The cumulative effect of this sick bathroom dance is that I am 74% certain that each of his eight teeth has been brushed at least once, maybe. And now that he is cutting two molars... the agony!

We have encouraged him to help us, we have tried distraction (the most successful was sitting him in the sink and letting the water run). We have employed a variety of prone positions, including hanging him upside down, and a number of different types of brushing accoutrement. I will even admit to holding him down on one occasion.

He, in turn, has become a Houdini Jr. -- capable of breaking any hold, grasp, or lock. He may very well be the "one" -- sent to revive this world's love for wrestling. (God, let us hope not.) He has lip strength that I find disturbing, and has nearly taken the tip of my finger off no fewer than 17 times.

I have already admitted to being a less-than-stellar dental patient, myself -- my fear of jaw and mouth discomfort, coupled with a dislike for flossing make me a challenge. I have, however, been blessed with good dental genes. Were Bean a clone, I would sit him in front of the TV with a Costco-size bag of Swedish Fish, a can of root beer (as a clone, we would share common interests...), and be done with it. But, N. is not so blessed and given the vast amount of N's genetic material that Bean displays... I would just be asking for several thousand dollars of dental work before I could get him off of our insurance. And given the mind-bending amount of therapy for which I will no doubt be paying... I have to find some savings somewhere.

And so, I brush.

* no offense to those of you who practice and believe in AP. Like I always say, whatever works for you. But, you do have to acknowledge that the books are a bit... well, fanatic.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

So, surprise, surprise... I am on the road again. I left the land of Vick's and snot for NYC this morning at the BUTT ASS CRACK OF DAWN. Jet*Blue lost one of my bags... on a direct flight, which simply boggles the mind. THAT is a special kind of competence. I love this airline, as it allows me to continue to feed my insatiable appetite for crap TV even at very, very high altitudes. However, they constantly test the limits of my tolerance. Usually, they get me to my destination a few hours late... this time, I arrived on schedule but, my bag will be delayed by about 10 hours. Why must air travel be so freaking complicated?

OK, rant complete. That might have been more like 13 seconds... So, I appreciate your indulgence... I just needed to get that off my chest.

BTW, for any of you who are interested and have not had the pleasure of experiencing for yourself, the exact sensation that the descent of the plane creates when one is flying with a sinus infection is that of 10 inch steel pins being driven through your cheeks, up through your eyeballs, and back out of your forehead. oh, and that ten inches doesn't refer to length, it refers to diameter. very pleasant indeed.

Yes, I finally went to the doctor and executed what can only be described as the most pitiable "sit-in" ever conceived by man... I insisted that everyone with any medical training examine the contents of my Kleenex and listen as I described in excruciating detail my numerous symptoms until someone would write me a prescription for ANYTHING. At that point, I would have settled for a horse laxative if someone had told me it would help me to breathe. Bean is doing much better on his own, as well. It has been two days since we have seen any evidence that he is producing toxic waste in his nasal passages. knock on wood, but I am almost optimistic enough to say that we might actually have a sick-free weekend. It must be all that good Wubbie mojo you have been sending our way.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

This morning, before the stomach funk took hold, Bean was engaged in his favorite early morning activity -- turning on and off the TV. I like to tell myself that his intense focus on this activity is not a sign of a budding love affair between a boy and his boob tube, but rather an exercise aimed at developing his sense of object permanence.

"Here's Matt and Al on the Luge looking dumb, and now I turn off the TV. Wait for it.... now, turn it back on... yep, there they are still looking dumb." (I have been told, many times in my life, that my ability to rationalize almost anything into a "learning experience" is truly a gift from God. I believe this to be true.)

I digress... at some point in the course of this very important brain development exercise (the more times you repeat something, the truer it becomes... I call this the WMD principle), something caught young Bean's eye... it was a boxer that looked remarkably like our dog, Nugget. I have mentioned before the love affair between these two. Bean became quite excited, banging on the TV as if he were making an attempt to get the dog's attention, much as he does multiple times a day when Nugget finds herself on the colder side of our glass doors.

At the sound of the banging, Nugget came prancing around the corner, throwing Bean into a tailspin. Once again, we could see his little brain working overtime, smoke pouring from his perfect little ears...

"How could it be that Nugget is standing here in this very room with me, but also inside this box frolicking in what I can only describe as the largest sand box I have ever seen? Do mine eyes deceive? Is it possible that this mere dog has mastered the art of being in two places at once, and if so, I must convince her to teach this skill to me... It could come in handy when those pesky naps interrupt my intense brain developing exercises with the TV?"

(see, Bean believes it... it is only a matter of time before y'all buy in and elevate me to Dr. Spo*ck status.)

I bring this little story up because it got me to thinking about the things that I believed as a child about the way that the world worked. For example, I, like (I assume) Bean, believed that everything that took place on the TV and/or radio was happening in real time. If I heard a song on the radio, it was because the band was right there in the studio... and when I heard that same song 15 minutes later on another station, well, they must be making the rounds. I also believed that the song "Secret Agent Man" was actually "Secret Asian Man." I figured out the whole radio/TV thing pretty fast... "Secret Asian Man," however, followed me to college.

N. thought that when people died in movies, plays, or on TV -- they were actually dying. He thought that, when you decided that you were ready to die, you could just show up and they would somehow work you in. As such, he determined that his plan would be to die in the production of "Bluejacket," a show about the Shawnee Indians in Ohio. He wanted to be the guy that got shot by the arrow and fell off the cliff, because, that would be a cool way to go.

Another friend, upon hearing that her baby brother was inside her mama's tummy and also hearing about the baby kicking and moving around, surmised that when she went to bed, her parents were opening up her mom's stomach and taking the baby out to play. After a few days of wrestling this over in her mind, she determined that this most certainly constituted "not sharing" and was, therefore, in direct violation of house rules.

So, what did you believe as a child? Come on, you can admit it... we are all friends here. We only mock because we love you and it will make you stronger.

Also, for those of you interested in creating real mind expanding opportunities for your children and exploring all that the patented "T'pon's Guide to Better Babies through Remote Controls" and its companion study guide "Some call it 'glazed over', we call it intense focus," have to offer, please email me for additional information. A seminar may be coming to your area shortly.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

We are finally experiencing a short break from the grandparent love here at casa t'pon, although the in-laws are on their way back... I don't really want to talk about that just now as it causes me undue stress and I am already battling a rather tricky patch of eczema from this past weekend.* I would rather talk about a particularly thrilling developmental milestone that Bean has passed.

For those of you who have been with us for a while, you will recall that I have a particular fascination with nose goblins. And, up until the other day, Bean showed little or no interest in following in his mother's footsteps, no desire to carry on the family tradition of boogie-slaying. He was, as a matter of fact, almost content to simply offer them refuge and solace, a human refugee camp for all manner of snot. "Give us your green and sticky, your crunchy clusters yearning to plug the nasal passageways. The wretched slimey from your teeming sinuses..." And when I was faced with the task of rescuing him from all of the harm that these unwanted intruders can bring, he would scream as if I was burning his very soul, as if I was wrestling from him the only loves he had ever known. I was, to say the least, disappointed.

But, on the occasion of his first birthday party, Bean delivered an unexpected and totally wonderful surprise to me. It was, as if, he was thanking me for all of the work and dedication of the past 12 months. A sign that he was in fact learning something from his interactions with me, gleaning some of my wisdom. The first glimmer that he would eventually be able to exist on his own.

Bean, with absolutely no prompting or assistance from me, picked his nose -- at first, tentatively, and then with a passion and abandon rarely seen in a child so young. The kid went to town, exploring the advantages of the pinkie finger over the index, discovering that while the thumb may separate us from monkeys, it is a total waste when it comes to panning for nose gold.

I will say that he is not quite as effective as I would like at actually extracting the offending interlopers. But, I am just pleased as punch that he is making the attempt. For those of you who may have been in attendance at the party, I can with 76% confidence tell you that the fingers he used for the nose-picking were NOT the fingers he used to eat icing off the cake.

I believe that it might mark the first time that he has taken proactive measures to prevent me from doing something the he cannot stand. He still resists and protests, with every ounce of his 22.7 lbs, when I make an attempt to hasten the process. Which gives me a moment of pause. Yesterday, as I was approaching with my Puffs Plus he stuck his finger right up there as if to say "Mom, I got this covered. No need to concern yourself. The situation is under control." It could be that he and the nose goblins are conspiring against me. That they are working together to continue living in sin.

Perhaps it is best to continue to monitor the situation, but for now, I am just thrilled.

* for those of you who still suspect that I am exaggerating about the in-laws, witness the gift that was ceremoniously presented to Bean on the occasion of his first birthday. We, by the way, specifically requested books this year.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Unlike the Junipers, I remember very few details from the big day. We knew that he would be born on Groundhog's Day, we did not know that he would be a he (although, I suspected it all along), N. tells me that is was a very gray and rainy day here in Texas.

The first 3 hours were easy, the next 2 blew my mind... I caved and got the epidural and we spent the rest of the afternoon watching "The Royal Tenenbaums" and "Raising Arizona" to prepare us for our roles as the guardians of this little person (that should tell you a lot about us)... At 8 PM, we started the pushing and at 8:17 PM, our baby Bean was born (with the worst cone-head I have ever seen).

I didn't sleep that night. I distinctly remember being overwhelmed with the task that was before me... and that was just the immediate job of breastfeeding (they didn't cover that in the aforementioned instructional videos). I listened to him breathe softly, marveling at how this new sound could be so very familiar. I spent all night studying every inch of him... just in case it was all a dream, I didn't want to forget a single detail.

And here we are 12 months later... a little wiser, a lot more tired, and far richer for the ride.

Most of all, I am just incredibly thankful that Bean didn't see his shadow last year and try to climb back into his "hole."

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Hark? What is that I hear... do I hear a, a word? What sound is this that rushes forth from the mouth of bean?

What small morsel of this our English language have you chosen to share with us young man?

Perhaps the name of the women who carried you inside of her for 41 weeks and has cared for you each and everyday since your grand entrance into this world (and we don't even need to discuss how grand that entrance was...)?

Perhaps you will make reference to the kind and funny young woman who cares for you while mommy goes about her day, dealing with people who sometimes make her gums bleed?

Or even, the great guy who makes you laugh so hard that, sometimes, spinach lasagna comes out of your nose...

Hush all you who gather round, the bean is about to speak... what shall this first word be...?

Thursday, January 26, 2006

There is a storm brewing here at casa t'pon, a battle of epic proportions just over the horizon... I can see it coming, and I know that life here will never be the same once it is complete.

Bean and Cole are battling it out for the alpha dog position in the pack. I fear that at the end of this all, not only will there be bruised egos, but that someone is going to have to be treated for some kind of gaping head wound.

Anyone who has multiple dogs, particularly large dogs, understands the importance of the pecking order within the pack. From time eternal, Cole has been the alpha dog of this family. He gets fed first, he calls dibs on every toy, ball, and chew toy that enters this house, and he has his way with Nugget on a regular basis. But like a new male lion circling the unsuspecting pride, Bean is preparing to make his move.

Over the past few months, Bean has been developing a very strategic relationship with Nugget. Showering her with affection, laughing at her jokes, telling her how thin and beautiful she is, feeding her "turkish delight" from his high chair throne -- essentially giving her everything that she doesn't get from Cole. She is falling for it hook, line and chicken tender. She is so enamored with the young tot that she has actually stopped being so needy when I am spending time with him. It used to be that anytime I got within 50 feet of the baby, Nugget would spring to life and bury any available appendage in my lap/chest/face/butt... whatever, anything to put herself between me and the Bean. But these days, eh... she is now willing (based on Bean's powers of persuasion) to share my love.

Having won Nugget to his side, Bean is ready to take on Cole... but I fear that it will not be so easy. Cole is, after all, MUCH smarter than Nugget and will see through simple manipulation. He is also drunk with power and paranoid about any possible action that might be an attempt to subvert his familial status. He does not accept Bean's little morsels from above, he will not share the toys. In fact, two days ago Cole popped Bean's soccer ball and football in a matter of 10 minutes just out of spite and a week ago, Cole did his best to take the head off of Bean's Little People zookeeper.

Bean, for his part, has taken on a more aggressive stand in taking control of the pack. Recently, I have observed my sweet boy startling Cole out of a dead sleep by sticking a finger in his nose for the sole purpose of rolling him over and climbing on top of him. I have also seen the boy pull at Cole's ears, try and shove things into the dog's mouth and generally molest his paws. Cole, in turn, has taken to going out of his way to throw a shoulder as he walks past Bean, knocking this little person to floor or pinning him to the wall. The "drive-bys" are so frequent that Bean is learning to "get low," squatting to prepare for the impact. Cole also uses his girth to block Bean's path, trapping in the closet or a corner of the room.

The two have so much in common -- a profound love of hot dogs and running outside, an indescribable obsession with their own "parts," an almost unmentionable fascination with Nugget's hind-end, and a snore that could wake the dead. I just don't see why we can't all get along.

I will also point out that while Cole easily outweighs this kid by 70 lbs... I don't think that the dog has considered that the Bean will only get bigger... and he will eventually be able to manipulate all manner of tools.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

When N and I first announced that we were expecting a Bean, advice and assvice (you know the difference) began coming at us from every direction. The one thing that we heard over and over again was that the first year would be the hardest. In fact, my mom made a point to tell me that the first year was enough to drive someone (perhaps, her?) to never have children again.

The reasoning, I suppose, is that it is hard to give so much of yourself to someone who demands so much and (at least in the beginning) has so little to really give back. From day one, you are expected to give up your sleep, your social life, your disposable income, your body... all in exchange to wipe his stinky ass, take a wizz in the eye from time to time, play endless games of "pick up," and to respond to his beck and call all hours of the day and night. If you are really lucky, you also get to attach a baby or an industrial strength milker to your tits. All you really ask in return is that he do his best to sleep past 4:30 AM. You know what I am talking about.

You begin to forget what you were all about before this little bundle arrived and that feeling is can be compounded by the rest of the world's compulsion to only want details inquiring minds on how big the baby is getting, how long is he sleeping at night, how many teeth does he have, is he crawling/cruising/walking/talking/taking over the fucking world yet?

And then this little sack of need surprises you one day... and smiles. He says, "dada!" and knows what it means. He gives you "besos" and hugs and you have no idea that it is about to get even harder. Because now, his hands are on everything, particularly those things that are especially dangerous. His little body is invading every single corner of your space. He wants up, he wants down, he wants you to hold him while you are trying to go to the bathroom... heck, he might even try to fish out what you just put in there if you really want it back. Personally, I have never seen neediness move so fast around a room.

But aside from the "demandipants" nature of your child, it is hard because now you know that he is paying attention and taking everything in, you are suddenly aware that you are shaping his world and that "fucking twatrag" would be a very bad first word. So, you give up your most treasured set of adjectives, adverbs and nouns... you adjust your TV watching habits... you learn to censor yourself.

But, as Bean nears his first birthday it suddenly occurred to me the other day that this first year has been a cake-walk compared to what is ahead of us. Not because of the back-chat, the tantrums, girlfriends, driver's licenses, dirty magazines, keggers, failing grades, etc. -- no, those are the incidentals.

This past weekend, we went to a friend's ranch (one of the benefits of living in Central Texas, friends with ranches) and Bean was on his best behavior. Charming as always, chatty, full of energy, and impressive with his motor skills. But, he also made a point of doing some things on his own. He did not want help eating his food, he did not want my help going down the stairs, he did not want to hold my hand walking down the path, and he was quite content to meet the Longhorns and the horse face to face without me at his side. He eagerly went to our friends, eagerly played with their dogs. He helped himself to paper towels in their cabinets and to the sw*iffer in their broom closet.

He did not need me to cuddle him, he did not need me to comfort him in this new place, he did not need my help to fall asleep.

I caught a brief glimpse of my baby Bean growing up, moving on, and taking the reins of his life.

And now that I have become accustomed to the Bean's need, I think that letting go --even a very little bit over a very long time -- will be the hardest thing of all.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

It seems odd to continue to refer to "the bean" as "the bean" now that he is an actual toddler (by definition and temperament) and is less than 2 weeks from the Big One Year Birthday. I feel that he should graduate to a new nickname, like"the BeanSprout".There seems to be more potential for him with the BeanSprout nickname, more growth and activity, seeking of the sun, branching out, photosynthesis, you know all that metaphorical crap...

What do y'all think? Bad idea in the course of the blogging relationship to suddenly change a major character's handle? I changed N's handlevery early on after enduring a whole two weeks of grown man whining (which in my book is only slightly more tolerable than a sharp, fucking stick in the ear and induces far less bleeding). But, is this different?

Moving on, the BeanSprout (formerly known as the Bean) was lagging a little in the mastery of the English language, lacking any real skills beyond that of a Mardi Gras reveler at 4 AM on Ash Wednesday. As a result, we started actively working on some language development exercises with him -- giving him names for objects, talking to him about things we see when we are out and about, giving him simple commands, etc. Where as, before we just duct-taped his mouth shut while we were watching TV and pointed at shit around the house and grunted.

What?!?! It worked for the dogs. They know when to shut up and be quiet and how to indicate their desire to be fed or let outside. What more does the BeanSprout really need to communicate?

Anyway, in the course of walking/running around the house and going about our daily lives with BeanSprout, naming things in English and Spanish (to the best of our very limited ability with the help of our very capable and fluent nanny), we have made an interesting discovery.

Jeebus, May and Joe, the BeanSprout is a motor-mouth. Once you get him started, this kid will not shut-up. Not only that, but he is bit of a back-chatterer and likes to interrupt. A few days ago, while building up and knocking down Lego towers engaging in brain-building play on the floor, we asked BeanSprout to come back over for more play in order to divert his attention away from eating one of Cole's hairballs that he had so lovingly selected from under the cabinet. He turned to us, and with this face, began a 2-minute long torrent of gibberish. While distracted from consuming the hairball, it wasn't exactly the outcome for which I had hoped.

N.turned to me and said "you might have a problem with this one." Um, OK...

And as far as we can tell, he isn't using actual words (although, he could be speaking Spanish for all we know), so he is just yelling incoherent crap at us. ALL DAY LONG.* From about 2 seconds after he wakes up until 3.75 seconds before his face hits the pillow for nap and bedtime, this kid is chatting. Unless of course we have his mouth plugged up with food. Not even the binky can slow him down. Chatting with the nanny, with the dogs, with toys and stuffed animals, the doors and windows, the swiffer, the dishwasher, whatever. Now that we have introduced him to things around the house, everything is fair game for an extended and often heated discussion.

A lot of time it is quite charming. But, sometimes it is a little irritating. Like when I am trying to talk on the phone (or even worse, trying to conduct a conference call for work) and he just gets louder and louder until I have to shove a sock or cookie in his mouth politely end the conversation. Or, when we are hanging out at the local book store and you can hear him extolling the virtues of A Snowy Day versus Are you My Mother? from the freaking periodicals section.

And I know that he understands the difference between an "outside" and "inside" voice because we have played whispering games. Perhaps, this is a case of selective memory or (unfortunately, more likely) perhaps, he just doesn't care.

It is a good thing that they make duct-tape in different colors. At least we can make sure the he is coordinated with his outfits.

* and for the record, N and I are NOT yellers. If BeanSprout learns anything about communication from us, it will be the long-cherished art of passive-aggressive confrontation. He will learn how to say scathing things whilst smiling at the other person. That, or he will gain the ability to just sigh the fully-loaded "whatever" and walk away.